Chapter Text
A crowded room always had a funny way of going quiet when you walked in. Like the air has been sucked out of the space and no one could breath.
Cameras stilled, lights stopped flashing and conversations dropped off. Heads turned instinctively when you, no, Pulchra, pulled at the strings of desire. Eyes watched your every move with either lust or envy, wrapping them into a tight knot of fixation.
You didn’t ask for this. Not the fame or the attention. And definitely not the name. Pulchra.
Pulchra, latin for beauty, a nickname coined by some glossy magazine trying to sound smarter than they actually are. They were the magazine to find you and make you. Printing your face on the front cover of tounsand of copies. The editor nearly drooled on you as he made an offer any girl living in a poor countryside town couldn’t refuse. A blank check. But as you signed your name on the dotted lines, you had no idea the stain of Pulcha that would be left behind. And when you eventually moved out of the countryside, into the city, no one spoke your real name again.
You sat in your dressing room, lit by the ring of vanity lights, staring at your reflection. Your hair curled perfectly, lips tinted the prettiest shade of pink and your eyes dusted and smoked out to highlight your natural eye color. You stared back at the reflection empty, debating on busting your hand on the mirror so it shatters and ruining your perfect skin. Not that it would matter. You could be beaten, bruised, riddled with zits and knotted hair. Your quirk will still make you beautiful.
Three stiff knocks pulled you from your thoughts.
“Five minutes, Pulchra!”
You didn’t answer. No need to.
You slipped on your floor-length dusty pink silk robe. The photoshoot was for some overpriced perfume, the kind that smells like roses. Why is it always roses? But you smiled through it.
The robe flowed and swished with your movements as you nearly floated down the hall into the studio. As predicted, everyone turned and stared in awe. Floods of makeup artists, hair stylists, designers and the kid who brings you coffee swarmed around you to invade your space and make everything even more perfect.
“There she is! My Goddess! My muse!” The photographer you didn’t even care enough about to remember his name clasped his hands like he was praying. “Pulchra, darling, you’re a vision. This champaign is going to be iconic.”
They literally all say that.
As is this ad is going to be the ad to beat all ads. But they are all just replicas of each other with different outfits.
You smiled, not the kind to reach your eyes, but the kind that still made people feel validated.
“Thank you” you said softly, your voice with just a kiss of husky to sound mysterious.
He guided you to set- a velvety chaise lounge surrounded by expensive flowers and draped with fine linens. The makeup artists gave your face a couple more puffs of powder, fluffed your hair a little higher and draped your robe off your shoulder so it was a little more……sellable.
“Alright my venus, give me longing. Give me yearning. Yes- just like that - oh god, you’re a star!”
You tilted your chin slightly, parted your lips with a hint of invitation. It was magic. Your quirk, Infinity Beauty, warped perception. No one saw your flaws. They couldn’t. The world only saw you as a goddess with flawless skin, shimmering eyes, and a perfect body. You were everyone's ideal vision of beauty. Whether they wanted to or not- they wanted you. You’re universally beautiful.
It was a curse.
When your quirk first manifested, creepy men made comments despite your young age. Little boys hid their feelings through teasing and hair pulling. At fifteen, a classmate tried to carve your name into his arm. When you were seventeen, a girl punched you just because her boyfriend said “Pulchra” while sleeping with his girlfriend. When you started modeling, things only got worse. Crazed fans followed you, stalkers broke into your home just to sniff your underwear and pillows. Everyday you receive love letters of people promising to commit their entire lives to you. It's why you now have four locks on your door and security cameras everywhere.
After the shoot wrapped, you disappeared before anyone could even offer celebratory drinks. Your driver knew the routine, pull around back, windows up and don’t talk.
Back at your penthouse, you peeled off the costume of Pulchra. Kicking off your designer heels, tossing name brand cloths into a pile on the floor and wiping the makeup off your face. The silence of your apartment was like an old friend. The apartment was filled with the silver lighting of the city and the warm tones of the burning candles. It was dim and quiet.
You opened the fridge, filled with expensive half opened bottles of wine, artisanal water and fancy meats and cheeses. You reached for the bordeaux cabernet sauvignon and poured a hefty glass of wine and curled up on the cream colored couch.
Here, no one watches. No one has expectations. Here you’re just….you.
You wrapped a soft blanket over your shoulders, put your phone on do not disturb and picked up the book you’ve been drowning yourself in for the last few days. A fantasy novel about a princess turned warrior, battling dragons and goblins. It was whimsical, silly, even a little childish. But you liked it. And no one ever asked what you actually like, only assumed.
“Pulchra drinks green juice.”
“Pulchra listens to classical music and French jazz.”
“Pulchra only dates supermodels and rich men.”
You haven’t dated in years. You weren’t sure you wanted to. How would you know if they wanted you, or Pulchra?
No one saw you. They only saw what they wanted to see.
As you curled deeper into the couch and slugged down the rest of your wine while throwing yourself in the fantasy of your book. You let out a long sigh. Tomorrow would be more of the same thing. Another shoot. Another crowd. Another performance.